


First Christmas

by Trin303



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Brief Smut, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:02:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28582449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trin303/pseuds/Trin303
Summary: John Wick celebrates Christmas for the first time
Relationships: Helen Wick/John Wick
Comments: 7
Kudos: 25





	First Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MeetMeInTheMatinee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeetMeInTheMatinee/gifts).



> Meetmeinthematinee's present for the John Wick Gift Exchange

There’s something about coming home to someone. It feels warm and good and right and, totally and completely, unfamiliar.

The sun has already long since set when John pulls into his garage. A by-product of December. A time of year that has, in all honesty, never made much sense to John. Truly, it doesn’t affect him much. There’s always someone to kill, no matter what month it is.

All December means for John is the nights are longer, so it’s easier to kill. Idly, he recognizes that there are decorations fucking everywhere. Even the Continental bought in with a giant tree in the lobby that had Charon fretting over getting pine needles everywhere. But that was it. 

He’d never really celebrated any holidays before Helen.

Thanksgiving had been… terrifying. Between Helen’s mother finding out he’d never celebrated Thanksgiving and deciding that John needed a crash course and Helen’s sixteen year old niece who kept making eyes at him for an entire weekend… well, holidays are definitely not his thing. 

Thank fuck she had promised no family for Christmas. He would have gone if she had asked, wouldn’t have even put up a fight. Her mercy is the greatest gift of all.

She still wanted to celebrate, but this time, it would only be them.

She'd taken time off work, too. The days leading up to the holiday as well as the week between Christmas and New Years. It was easy enough for him to turn down any contracts during that time.

Ten days with nowhere to be, with nothing to think about except Helen.

Still weeks away and he could barely stand the thrill of just  _ being  _ with her.

He was excited.

Excited was new, a feeling he hadn’t fully learned to process.

Like when Helen got home from work early or when she texted him that she missed him during the day. 

John parks his car next to Helen's SUV and revels in how good it feels to come home to her.

It's barely six when he walks into the house. Her baking makes his house smell like cookies.

And John has never been one for sweets but nothing smells better than coming home to Helen establishing herself in his kitchen.

He slips his suit jacket off as well as the Kevlar, draping both over the couch, and tossing his keys to the bowl in the hall as he walks by. 

John stops in the doorway of the kitchen, taking in the sight before him.

Her dark hair was braided back and out of her face and, somehow, still dusted with flour. She wears a dark green apron, the sleeves of her sweater pushed up past her elbows as she rolls out dough on his counter.

“It smells great in here.” 

She shoots a glance over her shoulder, taking in the sight of him.

His suit is a bit rumpled and his target’s blood stain is bright against the white of his shirt. Thank fuck that the rest of it blends in with his suit. He’s certain there’s blood on his face and in his hair but he and Helen are past the point of John rushing to shower and hiding his clothes; past the point of Helen pretending not to notice.

She shakes her head, turning back to where she was rolling out “You better not be getting any blood in my kitchen, John Wick!”

He has to remember to breathe at the way she claims it as hers.

“Your kitchen, huh?” He says, ignoring her, stalking around the counter.

“Learn to bake and I’ll consider sharing.” She tells him, stepping back from the cookie dough and towards the counter behind her. “I mean it, John. No blood near my foo--”

He backs her against the stone countertop and catches her face between his hands, bending down to quiet her with a kiss.

Her lips are soft and sweet, the taste of sugar cookies lingering on tongue. She hums against him. He nibbles on her lip as he pulls away.

Opening her eyes, Helen shoots him a harmless glare, “OSHA did not certify that!”

He snorts, a hand falling from her face and trailing down her arm until he entwines their fingers together.

"I'm not going to apologize."

Her lips twitch and then she smiles, reaching up and pushing back a lock of hair out of his face.

"Not your blood?"

He shakes his head and Helen nods.

“Injuries?”

“None.”

Aside from various Continental doctors, no one had ever really assessed him before. And while Doc was phenomenal, he didn’t exactly show the love and adoration that Helen did. 

She nods again, “Good.” Her hand comes up and idly plays with the edge of his vest, “I was thinking, maybe tonight we could get a Christmas tree?”

She looks up at him, almost like she expects him to say no or put up a fight. Silly girl, he thinks. There’s not a thing he can deny her.

“Alright.”

Helen beams at him. On tiptoes, she reaches up and kisses his bearded cheek. “Go wash up. I’ll have cookies ready for you when you come downstairs. I left you something on the bed to wear.”

He steals one last kiss before leaving her in peace.

A Christmas tree. 

He’s still not entirely sure of its purpose other than a place to leave presents.

And, fuck, that was another thing.

Presents.

Not that Helen wasn’t exceedingly easy to buy for, but this was important to her. She was changing decades of tradition to spend Christmas with him, and only him. Everything had to be perfect.

He strips down and showers, quickly.

He can only imagine what she has planned for them. 

The outfit, like she had said, is laid out on the bed.

The jeans and the plain t-shirt are fine. It’s what he tends to wear when he’s not going out to kill. But the grey sweater, with white reindeer on the front, surrounded by patterns of holly branches and snowflakes was ridiculous.

Fuck.

He dresses, in everything else, but forgos the sweater, carrying it downstairs over his arm rather than putting it on.

“Hels!” He calls as he reaches the bottom of the stairs and swings into the kitchen. “What the hell is this?”

He raises the sweater up for inspection as he walks into the kitchen.

She looks up from where she is lifting the shapes she had cut into the dough and placing them on a baking tray. “That’s an ugly Christmas sweater.”

John nods once, “Okay. So you know it’s ugly?”

She shoots him a look, “It’s a thing!”

“Ugly sweaters are a thing?” He asks skeptically.

“Mhmm. I have a box of them under my bed. Which reminds me, we’re going to need to stop at my place so I can pick up my holiday decorations.”

He tries not to wince as she says  _ my place _ .

John likes it better when the ownership in her language refers to what he thinks of now as  _ their  _ home.

Before Helen, relationships hadn’t really been a thing. He’d never considered bringing another person into his house, his space. Hell, half the people he considered friends had never seen his house. Or knew its address.

“When are we leaving?”

She slips the tray into the oven. “Twelve minutes.”

John walks over to the rack of cookies cooling and takes one. 

He’s never been one for such treats. Too sweet for his palate but he still found himself trying everything that she baked.

“Good?” she asks, wiping off the counter.

“Perfect.” John holds up the sweater, “So, do I really have to wear this?” 

“You don’t have to do anything.” Helen tells him, “But I think you’d look very sexy in a sweater.”

“Oh, do you?”

“Mhmm. Might even have to suck you off.”

John nearly chokes on the cookies, “Are you serious?”

Helen smirks at him, undoing the tie of her apron and pulling it off. “Put on the sweater and find out.”

He swallows what’s left of the cookie and wastes no time in slipping the sweater over his head. It’s ridiculous, he thinks again, noting the rows of holly and snowflakes that wrap around each of his arms. 

Helen steps over, setting her now folded apron on the counter behind him.

She inclines her head, standing on tiptoes. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips before she kisses him. Softly, gently.

She hums, “You taste sweet.”

Her hands run down his chest, the flat of his stomach, reaching for his belt.

Helen holds his eyes in hers, undoing the latch of his belt with a small smirk. She opens it before snapping the button, her fingers making quick work of the zipper as she drops to her knees.

She slips her hand into his pants, her fingers wrapping along his hardening length as she pulls him out. Helen leans forward, her tongue tracing the underside of his cock.

John takes a sharp breath as her tongue swirls around his tip.

Her wet mouth runs along him, coating him in her spit all around. Her hand, at the base of his cock, moves in tandem with her mouth.

She circles his tip again before sucking him into her mouth.

He grips the counter behind him as she moans against him, the vibrations making him impossibly harder.

Helen angles her head and pushes her mouth up, taking him as far as she can before dragging her mouth slowly back down his length. Her tongue, all the while, teasing him. 

“Fuck!” He swears, a hand flying to her head of it’s own accord. His fingers entwine in her dark hair, pulling her closer. She whimpers on his cock, bobbing up and down under his new guidance.

Her hands wrap around his thighs, using him as leverage to take him, swallowing him down and into her throat.

The noise that leaves him isn’t entirely human and it propels her. Her throat seems to close around him as she quickens her pace, looking up at him all the while. Her large brown eyes watering as he starts to tense.

He forces his eyes to stay open as he reaches the height of pleasure, cumming down her throat as she swallows him down.

When he has released, she slowly sucks her way down his length.

She comes off his cock with a slight pop, licking her lips as she does.

John tugs her hair as she slips back to her feet and he leans down, kissing her. He can taste his own salty flavor on her tongue, mixed with the sweetness of her Christmas cookies.

His free hand slides down her body, towards her core, but Helen breaks the kiss, stepping away playfully.

“Uh-uh.” She tells him, slipping just out of his reach.

“I can’t touch you?” He asks, stepping closer.

“That depends.” She teases, “We have a lot to do tonight. If you’re good, maybe you’ll get a present later tonight.”

“Is the present your pussy?”

Helen smiles, “You’d have to be a  _ very _ good boy.”

“I can be good.”

On tiptoes, Helen reaches up and kisses the corner of his mouth. “I know you can. Be a dear and go grab my purse. The cookies are almost done.”

…

They take her SUV. There’s far more space in her car than in his and, though John doesn’t say it, he didn’t want to explain to Aurelio that he got scratches on the roof of his car from a pine tree.

It doesn’t take long at Helen’s apartment to grab her Christmas decorations. Conveniently, they’re already packed in boxes from the previous years. 

She changes into a Christmas sweater. It has a kitten playing with an ornament and says “Meowy Christmas” in gold letters.

Ridiculous, John thinks, but adorable.

Miracle of miracles, she doesn't insist on cutting their own tree at the tree farm. Instead, she picks one that is already cut and conveniently packaged for travel.

It’s a bizarre tradition, John thinks, but says nothing. It’s worth it for the way she bounces excitedly as they strap it to the roof of her car. 

She plays Christmas music on the radio and her hand rests on his thigh as they drive.

When they get home, she transfers the music to his TV and giggles when John realizes that there are a trail of pine needles leading from the door to the living room.

“You do this every year?” John asks in disbelief.

Helen nods, closing the space between them. Her arms wind around his neck and she smiles softly, “If you  _ hate _ the live tree, I promise next year we can get an artificial one. They don’t smell as good, but it won’t make a mess.”

John tries not to react at the implication that there  _ will  _ be a next year.

He is still waiting for the other shoe to drop. For something to become too much for her. For someone better to come along.

She rises to give him a kiss before she releases him, opening the boxes of ornaments on his couch and removing a layer of newspaper padding.

“First thing is first,” she instructs him, taking several bound packs of lights. “You need to test each of these strands by plugging them in. If a few aren’t lit, that’s fine. But if more than a few don’t work, they can just be trashed.”

John nods and takes them over to and outlet. One by one, he tests the strands as Helen opens the other boxes of decorations. He sees the flash of tinsel being unpacked as he plugs in another strand, watching them all turn bright.

He unplugs and tests the next set and he can hear her humming along to the tune.

When all the strands are tested, he stands back up, taking the bundles to Helen.

“Next, we start stringing them on the tree.”

“All six?”

“No, I want to save at least two for the banister and another for the courtyard.” She takes the other strands over to the tree and begins fussing over the branches, fluffing them out before plugging in the first set of lights.

“Stand on that side of the tree, love.”

John follows her instructions, pushing up the sleeves on his sweater. Helen begins to weave the lights through the evergreen and hands him the string.

“And now I do what?”

“Wrap it around the tree, in the branches if you can.”

"What if it catches fire?" He asks, eyeing what she had done and trying to mirror it.

"It won't. The lights are made for this. And the wires are coated."

She takes the strand and wraps it around on her side before passing it back.

John hums, taking it and examining it anew.

"You're thinking how easy it would be to strangle someone with it, aren't you?" 

"Or hang them. You'd be shocked how many people want their relatives killed in the holiday itself."

"You already said you'd take the day off." She reprimands.

"And I will.” He promises, “I'm looking forward to having you all to myself for a little while."

A bit of pink stains her cheeks. “Good.” She tells him, connecting the next strand of lights to the first as they make their way up the tree with them. 

The song changes and John finds himself blinking at the familiarity of it. He knew Christmas songs. Even when he avoided the holiday, the music was everywhere. Each shop he entered, even if only for groceries, the train stations. Even walking down the street he often heard the carols played over a loudspeaker.

But this song he knew far more intimately.

"I know this one." He says softly.

"Know what?" Helen asks, handing John the new bundle of lights to begin stringing.

"The song. Tchaikovsky. The Nutcracker Suite."

She listens for a moment to the melody and then nods, "it's a popular one."

John hesitates, his heart contracting at the idea of sharing this particular memory. It wasn't a good one but it wasn't the worst, by far.

"You asked me a few weeks ago if I had any memories of Christmas."

Helen nods, "You said you didn't."

"And I don't, in the traditional sense. But I do remember this." He gestures vaguely to the TV, where the music plays from.

Helen sets the bundle that they have been passing in between the branches and comes around to John’s side of the tree. "You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to." She reminds him.

"It's not bad," John admits, "But it is a little embarrassing."

That makes her smile, "Oh? Do tell."

He's not getting out of it now so he begins to explain, "When I came to America, I went to the school for assassins."

She nods, having heard him reference it in passing.

"The Ruska Roma used a theater as a cover for the entire operation. So while we were all trained in killing, we also had to learn ballet.”

Her eyes widen and John can literally see her make a conscious effort not to react to that new piece of information. It’s almost amusing to watch her try to school her face but he takes pity on her, after all, it is nearly Christmas.

“Go ahead.” He says softly.

“You took ballet!” She nearly shouts at the new revelation.

John nods, “Yes. The skills between ballet and killing people are highly transferable and--”

“Nope. Sorry, stuck on the ballet thing. I need a minute.”

Helen leans against the wall, nodding to herself. She’s still trying to contain a huge smile and a small giggle slips out as she asks, “Did you have to wear a leotard?”

Yeah, he definitely is going to regret this.

“Yes.”

But he can’t bring himself to at the delight etched on her face.

“And you performed? In front of people?”

Again, John nods.

“Who did you play?” her voice breaks slightly at the question and John rolls his eyes.

“It depended on the year. When I was younger, I usually played one of the mice or Clara’s younger brother. My final year, before I ran away, I may have had to play the role of the Nutcracker Prince.”

A sound escapes her and Helen covers her mouth. 

“You’re getting a lot of joy out of this.”

“Is there video footage?”

“No.”

There’s a flash of disappointment in her eyes but it vanishes quickly enough with all the new information she has just garnered.

“This is the best moment of my life.”

“I’m sure that’s an exaggeration.”

“Nope. This right here.” She tells him walking back over to the tree and stringing the lights, “My sweet Nutcracker.”

John rolls his eyes, “I already regret telling you.” 

“Nah, you don’t.” 

He hates how she’s right. And he loves how she’s right as she hands him the end of the string. They pass it back and forth, tangling the tree in a faint white glow.

He still doesn’t understand the reasoning for decorating a tree with lights, only to take them off and pack them away for eleven months. But he keeps going, eventually taking over when the strand goes above her head, out of her reach.

“You’re kinda handy.” She tells him and John circles the tree, placing them along the spots which she cannot reach.

“Guess you’ll have to keep me.”

“I mean, I could replace you with a step-ladder.” She jokes, “But I suppose you have your other uses.”

“And what are those?” John asks as he tucks the end of the strand into the branches and out of sight.

“You keep the bed warm, which is nice. And you know how I like my coffee.” She takes a step backward as John begins stalking toward her, “You’re pretty handsy-- sorry, handy, in the shower, too.”

John catches her, wrapping an arm around Helen’s waist and pulling her towards him.

“Plus, there’s the fact that I’m kind of in love with you.” Her voice softens as he strokes her face.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

John leans down and kisses her gently.

“I love you, too.” He tells her, noting how she shines under the subtle glow of the Christmas lights.

“Then I guess you’ll have to keep me.”

“Forever.” John promises because if she’ll have him, that’s how long he will hold her.

She bows her head, touching her face to his chest, breathing him in for a long moment before she slips out of his arms. She takes his hand and leads him back over to the couch and the boxes of ornaments. 

“This box first.” She tells him, showing him a handful of stacks of orbs in red, and blue, and silver, and gold. “I tend to tuck these further into the tree and save the outer branches for the more personal ornaments.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She smacks his ass playfully, “Go decorate the damn tree.”

John grins, taking a handful of the ornaments over with him. Helen shows him how to use the plain ornaments to make the tree look fuller.

And then they move on to the second box, filled with much more personable ornaments.

She has about six ornaments that take on some various form of coffee cup or mug and she tells him exactly where she got it or whom she got it from. She shows him a tiny book ornament that actually has the story written inside.

“What about this one?” He asks, holding up a small gingerbread man clearly decorated by a child.

“Hannah made that for me a few years ago for Christmas.” She says, referencing her niece. 

“And this one?” He holds up a glass jellyfish, decorated with ribbons and beads.

“Spring break in college. My roommate got it for me to comemorate the day I was stung by one.”

John smirks, hanging it from a high branch so that the tendrils fell down into the tree.

He goes over, snagging a few more from the box. There’s a key, engraved with her first address and the year she bought her first home. An ornament that serves as a picture frame with Helen holding her newborn nephew, claiming  _ World’s Best Aunt. _ Another mug of coffee and a small grand piano with a year etched into it. He did the math. She would have been six.

“What about this one?” He holds up the piano.

She looks up and smiles at the sight, “My grandmother got that for me after my first recital.”

“I didn’t know you played.”

“I haven’t in years.” She admits, walking over and hanging a tiny wine glass on the tree next to him. “I started taking lessons in kindergarten.. My grandmother had a grand piano in her living room. I used to go there every day to practice. Played all the way through high school.”

“And then?”

She shrugs, “I left home. Went to college. Played a bit in the music practice rooms but those were mostly reserved for students actually studying music. My grandmother passed not long after I graduated. My parents offered me the piano but I didn’t have any place to keep it.” She shrugs, “Think they sold it.”

She hangs a ceramic bee that makes a branch droop. 

“Where’d that one come from?”

“Steve.” She says, referencing her brother, “He used to call me honeybee when I was little.”

It continues to blow his mind that she has an answer for nearly every single ornament.

The frosted-glass Christmas tree once belonged to her grandmother.

The golden retriever was an homage to her first dog, Lucy.

Another picture frame ornament that had a picture of Helen and her siblings, far younger and bundled up in winter clothes standing outside with rosy cheeks.

A soccer ball from her dad.

A globe from her grandfather that had an x over New Jersey and another over where Helen had studied abroad.

There’s another of just Helen, this time as a baby, engraved with  _ Baby’s First Christmas _ .

Helen sees it and her eyes spark up, “Oh! I almost forgot! I’ll be right back!”

She turns on her heel and runs back up the stairs leaving a bewildered John standing at the tree. He shakes his head and resumes going through her ornament collection.

She doesn’t take long and her footsteps soon echo off the stairs as he hurries back down. There’s a bag in her hand as she reaches him and a smile on her face.

“I picked up a few new ornaments when I went shopping earlier.”

.”Oh?”

She nods, eagerly and reaches into the bag. She pulls out a small glass bottle, the bottom painted in an amber to give the illusion of liquid. It’s labeled  _ bourbon _ and John laughs as he takes it.

“Where’d you find this?”

“There was a kiosk in the mall.” She reaches into the bag, “Where I also found…” She pulls out another ornament. There was a picture of John inside of it that he recognized from a few days before, when he was making her coffee, still in his pajamas.

Etched on the edge of the frame is  _ Baby’s First Christmas: 2009 _ .

He shoots her a look and she just giggles. 

“Really?” He asks, not offended in the slightest, more amused than anything.

“Yeah,” she flashes a wide grin, “You’re my baby and it’s your first Christmas.”

“You think you’re cute, don’t you?”

“ _ You _ think I’m cute.” She corrects, stepping over to him, and resting her head against his chest. “I just want this year to be special for you.”

“It already is.” He says, and by fuck does he mean it.

…………

Usually, almost always, John wakes up first.

His internal clock tells him to wake up with the sun while Helen prefers to sleep until six-thirty on the weekdays and eight on the weekends. It works well for him. He doesn’t need as much sleep as she does and he would much rather spend his mornings watching the woman in his arms. 

Christmas morning, he finds, is the exception. Helen is up before the sun has peaked over the horizon. He feels the bed bounce, jolting him out of his restful slumber and suddenly Helen is crawling on top of him.

A welcome occurrence, he thinks, but he doubts this will go where his first thought trails…

“It’s Christmas!” Helen says, bouncing on her knees, further jostling him.

John smirks, still not opening his eyes, and says, “So it is,” his voice still rough from sleep.

“Get up!”

He hums, “Is this what the phrase  _ kid on Christmas _ refers to?”

She playfully smacks his chest, “Come on!”

John opens his eyes and glances over at the clock. “It’s not even six.”

“So?”

“So all this from the woman who once threatened to castrate me if I ever woke her up before six without a coffee in hand?”

“Its Christmas!” Helen says, like it’s an answer.

John grabs her hips and flips her to her back before she can even recognize what is happening. Rolling on top of her, John slips a hand under her shirt.

"Is it time for me to unwrap my present?"

She laughs and  _ fuck _ . Everything seems surreal and he can't quite believe that this is his life.

Helen lying under him, her dark curls still mussed from sleep. An excited countenance that is almost contagious as she wakes him up to celebrate a holiday.

He half expects himself to wake up and find out it was all just a wonderful dream.

Good things don’t happen to him, but there she is.

Helen reaches up and places a hand on his cheek. She strokes it lovingly, “Stockings first. Then we can talk about unwrapping your presents.”

John slips off her and takes her hand, pulling her to her feet. “Pajamas stay on?”

She snorts, “You’re not opening presents in a three-piece.”

He kisses her head, “Yes, ma’am.”

Helen grabs him by the hand and practically drags him from the room.

His heart races in his chest. He hoped he had done good enough. Marcus seemed convinced that he had when John had consulted with the other assassin. Marcus assured him that his gifts for Helen were perfect, that she’d be thrilled, but doubt gnawed at him.

He’d never done this before, never had cause to buy another presents. And Google was helpful but he still wasn’t entirely sure if he’d managed to do a stocking right. 

John almost wants to slow her down. Her biggest present waiting at the bottom of the stairs. Too complicated to wrap, he got a novelty gigantic bow from Aurelio that usually went on cars to stick atop the gift.

There would be no missing it, he thinks, as Helen drags him down the stairs and stops.

He hears the hitch in her breath and her head swings back up to look at him, her mouth open.

Better or worse, he’s stunned her into silence.

Her eyes shift back to the grand piano sitting just under the balcony, the red bow’s ribbons flowing down the sides.

“I-- John!”

Her hand goes up to cover her mouth and he’s not quite sure what that means. If he should offer to return it and just forget about the whole thing but then she’s turning, her arms thrown around him and his heart just fucking stops.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

He’s not sure what the feeling inside of him is. It’s warm and expanding. It almost  _ hurts _ with the intensity that fills him at her reaction. And fuck, but what he wouldn’t give to make her feel that way again.

“How?” Helen asks, slipping her arms from around him, wiping a watery eye.

“French doors come off their hinges.” John says, “Marcus, Aurelio, and I moved it in late last night.”

“And I slept through the three of you trying to move a piano?”

John smirks, still reveling in the foreign emotions overwhelming him, “Why do you think I kept refilling your wine last night? You were out like a light before ten.”

She wacks his arm, her face aglow with a smile, and yeah, he thinks he gets it.

He thinks he understands why people run ragged each year over finding the perfect gift. He understands that there is something beyond the blind materialism, something intricate and beautiful and special about taking care in finding something for the person you love.

Something perfect about watching Helen reach down to brush her fingers along the keys, noting the way her fingers arch to familiar forms as she tests the instrument.

A soft melody fills his usually quiet house.

Lights from the tree brighten his usually dark house.

And Helen fills his usually empty home.

He never wants this to end.

He never wants her to leave.

He’ll make her so happy that she never wants to leave, he decides. He will do whatever it takes to bring her the kind of peace that she brings to him. He’ll spend the rest of his life adoring her, loving her. Making it all worth it for her.

She looks up, smiling at him and  _ fuck _ .

_ I’m going to marry her _ , John thinks.

He steps forward, closing in the space around her and wraps his arms around her waist, resting his head on hers. He closes his eyes and lets the song she is playing wash over him.

“Merry Christmas.” He whispers.


End file.
